


It's Not the D.E.S.

by oddmonster



Category: Miami Vice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmonster/pseuds/oddmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inappropriate workplace behavior in the Bug Van.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not the D.E.S.

The Bug Van was hot, it was sticky and, even though they'd been over it with a fine-toothed comb, neither Switek or Zito had been able to find the source of the foul smell behind the driver's seat.

The Bug Van was currently painted several shades of gray primer and parked outside The Dunes, an hourly hot-sheet in the heart of Esperado. Gina and Trudy were inside one of the ground-level rooms, seeing just how much a visiting dignitary wanted to pay to take home a couple kilos of coke as souvenirs. While they weren't wearing wires (the dignitary had played that little game before), the two Vice cops had gotten to choose the location for the meet. So earlier that morning, Stan and Larry had put in some quality time hiding bugs in the filthy lampshade, the tv dial (the less said about that the better), one of the curtain rings and--just in case--on the underside of the toilet-roll holder. The surveillance guys were now reaping the rewards of their labor, sitting in the sweltering heat of their mobile office, listening to yet another in a long line of corrupt government officials try to talk Gina out of her blouse.

They'd both lost interest an hour ago. At this point the mark was attempting to recount the plot of "Raiders of the Lost Ark", which he'd seen with wildly inaccurate Spanish subtitles.

Which was not illegal in any way, shape or form.

Stan leaned forward and adjusted the vertical amplifier, one headphone tucked behind his ear. Apparently in the Spanish-language version of the movie, Indiana Jones threw snakes at Jesus. Larry looked at his partner and they both cracked up.

Stan shook his head and leaned back, arms crossed across his chest, staring at Heather Locklear, taped up above the op-amp. Dressed in a striped leotard and matching headband, she seemed ecstatic to be holding a pose most women would have found highly uncomfortable to say the least.

Frowning, Stan reached over to adjust the feedback once, and then a second time, fine-tuning. Larry watched him admiringly. His partner knew the equipment inside and out, and took great pleasure in producing the highest-quality recordings. In Stan's hands the surveillance equipment was like paintbrushes, receivers like canvases. The tapes would be perfect.

Very few cops on the squad appreciated Stan's skill with these machines, Larry thought. He remembered one time a junkie they'd brought in had gotten loose in the squadroom and before anyone could react, had smashed one of the new Sony DFAs. A momentary lapse that bought the junkie charges of resisting arrest and Larry and Lester a long evening trying to put the responder back together for a stakeout the next night. In a fair world the department would have replaced it, but four hours into the operation, the two of them had assembled something basically functional. When Stan arrived the next morning, Larry had watched mesmerized as his thick fingers moved tiny wheels and wires, sockets and solder back into their correct positions.

Of course anything else he handled ran a good chance of being smashed or dropped, so it probably all evened out in the end.

"Hey Lar?"

"Huh?"

"You think this guy's gonna bite?"

"Who knows. Gina and Trudy thinks so, so does Crockett."

"Just sounds lonely to me. Like he's hoping to get lucky."

"Buying from two Vice cops isn't very lucky." Larry went back to staring out the windscreen at nothing much, beige curtains drawn across the room's window, a closed eye set in pink stucco. The van shook as Stan maneuvered between the front seats, a heavy hand on the passenger seat headrest helping to lever him into the driver's seat. "Anything?" he asked.

"Nada."

The radio crackled. "Keep your pants on, ladies; let's give them a little more time to get to the point."

Stan glared at the receiver. "I hate when he does that."

"What?"

"Captain Mindreader over there! It's like he can hear everything we say. You didn't accidentally lean on the radio, didya?"

Larry snickered and shook his head. "Hey Stan, y'ever wonder if the Bug Van's bugged?"

They stared at each other in horror for a second. "Nah," Stan answered finally. "I mean, we'd know, right?"

"Sure we would," Larry answered.

The radio crackled again and they both jumped.

Larry watched out the window at the unchanging face of the motel. As far as he could tell, The Dunes had stood watch on this busy street, miles from anything resembling a beach, for at least forty years, probably more. Bleached-pink stucco augmented with cement curlicues and what had presumably been meant as turrets, although the only thing castle-like about this particular motel was the moat full of trash out back. It was a part of Miami history. A bonafide, flea-ridden, peeling-paint-on-iron piece of history.

Even having combed through the detritus of one of the Dunes rooms, Larry still wished they could have set up in the room next door rather than the stifling heat of the Bug van. At least then they'd have the ceiling fan, and the window. The mini-bar. The shower. Larry looked over at Stan, busily fanning himself in front of the recording board, shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

Larry returned his focus to the audio feed coming from Gina and Trudy's room.

The general's rousing rendition of divine intervention in Indy's escape from the pyramid was interrupted by two quick bursts of static and what sounded like someone putting a Care Bear in a blender. They looked at each other.

"Dammit," Stan said, crawling behind the seats to the long-range board. "I thought we fixed that."

"Try increasing the gain," Larry suggested.

"It's not the gain!"

"Well what about extending the range of the DES array?"

"It's not the DES." Stan had both hands on the board, making minute adjustments, to no avail.

Larry crawled between the seats to join him. "What about switching to a channel farther from our own band? Crockett's lectures could be eating up the bandwidth."

The static continued and Crockett's voice came over the radio. "What the hell are you two doing in there? You wanna get this guy or what?"

Crouching next to Stan, Larry reached a hand towards a knob in the lower right quadrant. Stan slapped Larry's hand away and held a finger to his lips. He raised a set of headphones to one ear, and slowly adjusted the slide on the equalizer.

Larry stretched the length of the van to grab the radio mike from where he'd dropped it on the dashboard. "Keep your shirt on, Sonny," he said, looking back to appreciate his partner's smirk. "We'll have it fixed in a jiffy."

"You better," Crockett answered. "Unless you want traffic detail in the Everglades."

The static died down as Stan made minor adjustments, just in time for them to hear all about how Indy used the whip on his day off.

"Oh okay," Larry said, "I remember that version. 'Raiders of the Lost Ass.' Yeah, not bad. Although I'm not sure how Indy managed to untie himself for the big ending."

Stan pulled a face and shook his head. Larry laughed. "Get it, Stan? 'Big ending'? 'Raiders of the Lost Ass'?"

Stan snickered. "Good one, Lar."

The two of them lapsed into silence and Stan resumed staring at Heather Locklear. Outside, the buzz of daytime sleaze all along Highway 128 continued uninterrupted.

Stan looked down and shook his head. "Y'ever wonder what girls like her wear for a night out? You know, for a date? I wonder if we'd even recognize this little gal without her headband."

Behind them, the radio continued to relay the Spanish-language version of the reclaiming of the ark while Gina and Trudy tried to get the general down to a business that involved breaking some type of law.

Stan went on. "'Course she probably doesn't have any trouble getting dates with or without it." He whistled appreciatively. "A girl like that--"

Larry recognized the telltale signs of when his partner was going to pontificate at great length; with any luck, Stan would get to the point with only three or four reminders and in the first ten minutes.

He couldn't take it any more. He leaned forward, put a hand on his partner's shoulder and kissed him, barely pressing their lips together. One tiny, perfect second.

Stan started and pulled away violently, stumbling over the low stool in his haste to get back.

Larry felt his stomach drop.

He put his hands on his knees and looked at the floor. "Okay." He took a deep breath, then puffed it out in an exaggerated sigh. "Well, this is awkward."

The two of them looked around the confines of the van; pinup polaroids stuck to the cabinet behind the driver's seat, the flashing recording light of the audio setup, burger wrappers on the worn orange carpet. Anywhere but at each other.

Suddenly Stan reached out, put an arm around the back of Larry's head and kissed him back, hard. Larry leaned into him with enthusiasm, pulling his partner across the long-range receiver in the hot, cramped van. He slid a hand around Stan's waist and felt the moment resonate down his spine, enjoying the duel their tongues were enacting, Stan's mouth hot and yet soft against his own.

After a few seconds though, Larry had only one thought: his partner was an awful kisser.

Kissing Stan was like being attacked by a banana slug on steroids. He bludgeoned Larry's tongue with his own, like he was conquering new territory or subduing an unruly suspect. And Larry couldn't remember when he'd been more turned on. He hoped his partner fucked with a similar uncoordinated gusto.

The radio squawked to life, Crockett's voice filling the van. "They've been made! All units move! Go, go, go!"

The two of them sprang apart guiltily then both lunged for the radio, banging heads in the process. Larry put a hand to his head and pulled back the van's panel door. He leapt out into the sunshine and ran across the motel parking lot, gun drawn. He got to Room 12 just ahead of two Metro officers and just behind Crockett, who helpfully kicked the door in and continued moving, diving headfirst across the bed to tackle the Panamanian ambassador to Guatemala. As Larry helped Gina up off the carpet, dress torn and lipstick smeared, he caught the look she shot at Crockett.

"Looks like you picked the wrong time to come to Miami, pal." With complete disregard for diplomatic immunity, Crockett scruffed the ambassador, shook him like a terrier with a rat, and slapped cuffs on him. He turned to Gina. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Next time don't leave it so close, okay?"

Larry barely heard Crockett's response. Jeez. The guy had no problem making himself heard in one of his frequent disagreements with Castillo or whenever he felt like dispensing The Gospel According to Sonny to other guys in the squad, but five seconds in Gina's presence turned him into a sap.

Well, at least if he and Stan got busted for inappropriate workplace behavior, they wouldn't be the only ones.


End file.
